


The Observer Effect

by my_daroga



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, POV First Person, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-15
Updated: 2010-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:28:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_daroga/pseuds/my_daroga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I had always assumed that you were aware of every pair of eyes on you, that every movement was calculated."</p><p>Shatner lives to be looked at, but by whom? Nimoy sees more than he wants to, but he doesn't see everything. TOS-era, pre-slash, and lots of yearning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Observer Effect

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [The Observer Effect 观察者效应](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1424116) by [racifer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/racifer/pseuds/racifer)
  * Translation into Русский available: [Эффект наблюдателя](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5183615) by [Nagini_snake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nagini_snake/pseuds/Nagini_snake)



> Written for [](http://candesgirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**candesgirl**](http://candesgirl.livejournal.com/)'s [Masturbation Month Wank Party](http://candesgirl.livejournal.com/213799.html) (do I have the name right?). And as always, with love for [](http://obstinatrix.livejournal.com/profile)[**obstinatrix**](http://obstinatrix.livejournal.com/) and [](http://starcrossedgirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**starcrossedgirl**](http://starcrossedgirl.livejournal.com/) for their support.  
> **Disclaimer:** To my knowledge, this did not happen.

I had always assumed that you were aware of every pair of eyes on you, that every movement was calculated. I'm not sure why, because you were so often so extreme in your expressions, in your very physicality, that no one person could possibly be consciously controlling them. Maybe it was your obvious self-love. Maybe it was just your beauty, even though I knew the ins and outs and ups and downs

I dismissed my reaction to it as absurd and juvenile, the sort of thing boys grow out of except I'd always been a late bloomer, until that day outside your dressing room. You see, I knew better. I knew all about the lifts and the green shirt and the—but yes, I know, you don't even like to admit that now. But I knew better. And yet, there you were, batting your golden eyelashes at everyone and being utterly, ridiculously self-aware of your effect. It would have been disgusting if it wasn't also somehow honest, up front.

I was less so that evening, after I thought everyone had gone home. Everyone, that is, but whatever sexpot-of-the-week you'd conned or had conned you into staying after. It was late enough in the run that you were known and weren't required to buy them dinner first, and you and I weren't really speaking much except on set, so out of some sort of spite I wasn't going to say anything about the door being open as I passed. I looked in, though, because a man doesn't ever really outgrow the sort of curiosity aroused by a sliver of light and some heavy breathing. Looking back, I had to have known you were alone. Looking back, I should have just shut the door. I'm glad I didn't.

No one's really beautiful, not like you were—not men, anyway—and it was just as true for you as anyone. But maybe that was what stopped me as I peeked in to find you alone, sprawled on the cheap ochre-colored sofa, offering a three-quarter profile as you faced away from me. It was as if you wanted to be seen without abandoning your ability to deny the charge, so I stayed, wondering what I'd heard until I noticed the hand in your pants. You were half-dressed, green striped shirt unbuttoned and revealing a too-narrow strip of waxed chest and the swell of your gut, your head at an angle that did not flatter your scalp in the least. And yet, and yet, your eyes were closed and your lashes lay on your cheeks as if you had been painted just so, the curve of your ass visible by your raised leg and the tautness of the fabric displaced by your hand. I wondered how you could possibly believe all these things to add up to something worth looking at and still be right and thought, no, this is a set-up, a prank, you have to go now while you can still deny you were anything but shocked! shocked! when they jump out at you.

But then you moved again, your other hand coming up to scratch at your chest, sliding under the shirt until it fell away and your thumb brushed a pink nipple. Why couldn't it wait until you got home? I wondered, even as I leaned against the doorframe. It was darker in the hallway, and I wasn't planning on making any noise. I hadn't ever really watched a man like this. I hadn't ever watched anyone who didn't know they were being watched—voyeurism wasn't my bag. Or so I had thought. But you knew I was there, didn't you? You had to. Someone was always watching, or else you ceased to exist.

Your hand moved under your pants and I was on the point of being irritated that you would deny me this when you withdrew it and unbuttoned them, skinning out of them easily. I thought at first you weren't wearing underwear but you'd merely pulled those off, too, and the whole pile lay entangled on the floor, legs unnaturally bent. You didn't take off your socks. Perhaps to preserve the illusion that you thought you were alone.

I wondered who you were thinking about, tried to imagine her as you took yourself in hand, shirt still half on which only made your nudity more overt. As you settled, one leg bent against the back of the couch, the other lying flat, you resembled what I imagined a Playgirl centerfold to look like, only gone to seed and somehow all the more enticing for that. Was she blonde? Brunette? Light? Dark? Did she have great tits or was she one of those flat-chested waifs, so popular at the time? You didn't exactly have a type in those days beyond female and, if at all possible, gorgeous. I think it was more about how they looked at you than how they looked anyway.

And what were you imagining, as you spit into your hand and wrapped your blunt fingers around your cock, palm sliding up to the crown as you let out a sigh? Were you on top? Behind? Was she riding you or were you on that very couch, her hair spread across your thighs as you arched up into her mouth? Were your fantasies elaborate, with some sort of pornographic pseudo-narrative or was it just flashes of image and sensation, incoherent and visceral? I wanted to see inside your head, to know not just what you thought about but how. If it was different from not just me but humanity as I knew it. It had to be. I had never known anyone so distinctly, uniquely ordinary as you. You represented everything I had been led to believe was average and normal but had never actually met.

You spit again and began in earnest, thumb rubbing the head after every other stroke, your other hand scratching through the curls I was somewhat surprised to see. If I had been called upon to imagine you, I would have pictured you virtually hairless, but you gasped lightly as you tugged at the hair and then grasped your balls, rolling them in your palm and pulling down slightly, increasing the tension in your cock. It was bigger, erect, than I would have wanted to think, given your ego and my fervent desire to believe that the effect of your uniform pants was an exaggeration. There was something unselfconscious in your movements, something that almost convinced me you did think you were alone, but then you moaned lightly and your hand moved faster and I knew it had to be a show. To what purpose, I was unable to imagine, unless it was to keep me here, fascinated and still enough that I didn't have to think about my own arousal. You moved with a surety that was only natural, your head sliding back as your efforts increased. Your mouth opened in a little pink "o" that was, somehow, the most obscene part of this.

That is, until you ghosted your free hand up over your stomach, your chest, and inserted your index finger between your lips, coating it thoroughly and lingering far too long over the slide of it in and out before it escaped in a little wet "pop" and, to my immense surprise, moved unerringly between your legs. I couldn't see what you were doing but the shift of your hips was plain, as was the gasp you let out. I stared in fascination at the hand disappearing between your thighs, slight movements that I tried to decode as circular or in and out or some combination of both. This hadn't figured into any of my speculations, and I stood, transfixed, no longer thinking and no longer able to deny my interest. Your breathing was audible now, both of your hands moving faster and in concert, your pleasure writ plainly on your absurdly innocent features. I could no longer speculate as to what was in your thoughts. Not through lack of imagination but because I could not yet address what it meant for me.

You were fucking yourself in earnest now, just the one finger I thought but it would be enough, if the little cries in your voice were any indication. Your hand had remained steady but now your rhythm began to falter, your eyes squeezing shut in something that looked almost like pain but nearly all your expressions resembled some form of ecstasy. I think that was when I began to think it was not an act. That none of it was. That you were exactly the same person watched or unwatched. And maybe that was exactly why you needed an audience. Your hidden hand was jerking now, sliding roughly between your thighs. The other stroked with short quick motions, your flesh gleaming with saliva and pre-come and furious with need, and I needed you to come almost as much as you needed to, my breath held as I willed it. I had never wanted anything so much in my life, perhaps because I had no control over it. I was at your mercy, just as you were, helpless and somehow strong in your abandon.

You came, eyes and mouth flying open wide and back arching as you spilled over your chest and belly, hot white spurts that left a pattern like words in an ancient language I could not read. I wanted to. I needed to. I could not move from that spot, even as your breathing evened and you reached behind you for a towel to clean up and it became ever more urgent that I go and forget I ever saw you. I could come back tomorrow and greet you innocently and never have to address the way I had let myself believe that writing was for me.

But I was too late—you turned, glancing up sharply at some noise I couldn't remember making, and the look on your face—surprise-horror-chagrin—made it utterly clear you'd had no idea the door had been open. You hadn't pulled your pants on, and in your socks you looked suddenly vulnerable and lost, like you'd never gotten over that first time your mother or father had caught you at something shameful.

And then you looked at me, and your brow furrowed slightly, and maybe you were just better at that ancient language than I because you saw something in me I had not been able to in you. Your face cleared, and you were the man I thought I knew again, clothes or no. You licked your lips, supremely unconcerned, as if the surprise had never been. "I was just thinking about you," you said, your voice rough with use, and I stepped in and shut the door.


End file.
